


1924

by sakusakiyoomi



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Gun Kink, Gun Violence, Love/Hate, M/M, Roaring Twenties, Sexual Violence, hardcore sex and stuff, ushioi - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-26
Updated: 2018-03-26
Packaged: 2019-04-07 05:08:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14073555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sakusakiyoomi/pseuds/sakusakiyoomi
Summary: Two young men with passionate unliking to one another's presence find each other working as partners-in-crime. Additionally, all kinds of tensions rise between, and whatever more the aftermath has left for them. Follow along their quests of bloody-handed work, gear-busting trickery, and incredible amounts of sexual frustration. Nobody's normal in LA.





	1924

**Author's Note:**

> the setting is the roaring 20s age, jazz era, Los Angeles. Ushijima & Oikawa are 25 years old. they're hitmen for a large association. now sit back, sip your coffee, take out your dick and enjoy. <3
> 
> \- yoomi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ess0tB2obZo chateau gives me a vibe of this fic au kinda.

21:37 PM  
MID-APRIL

The rain in nighttime Los Angeles was nothing more than a distractor; a diversion, really. Just a distraction from all the evil doings and happenings that formed the streets and alleys of LA. The loud, continuous woosh of the rain thundering down upon the gravel with every millisecond was always helpful in many different cases. In this particular case, two young men in fine-pressed suits and matching dress shoes would find themselves at an advantage. That was the beauty of nature: it could acquaint just about anything—no matter it be for the greater good or greater evil. Once again, in this case, it was definitely aiding the greater evil.

The intensity of the rain had washed out the sound of Ushijima Wakatoshi’s pistol, the clacking of dress-heels on ground, the effortful dragging of a freshly decaying body. Oikawa Tooru was lighting up a cigar in determined hopes to draw away the scent of wet blood—just in case the rain wasn’t enough. One could never be too careful, no?

“You are twenty-five years of age and yet you still cannot open a single bodybag?”

“Shut up. It’s dark and raining, I can’t even see my own fuckin’ hand.”

“Language.”

“Fuck you!”

“No thank you.”

“At least I’m actually doing shit. You’ve been sitting on your ass like some kind of dewdropper.”

“Unlike you, I’ve actually found the zipper of the bodybag.”

Reaching forward, Wakatoshi gripped the tiny mechanism and unzipped the bag, opening it and holding it steady for Tooru to lower the body. The brunet proceeded to do so, as graceful as a monarch, really. “Well done,” chimed Ushijima, deep voice dripping with the least bit of sarcasm. Tooru rolled his eyes, chocolate orbs glistening like marbles. Needn’t say anything, he simply glared and scowled at his partner hitman. 

___

23:12 PM

“It was I who shot him, sir.” 

The two men had successfully arrived at headquarters with the bodybag—and the body inside it—still intact. The Akiraminari Headquarters was an underground, well-built and well-protected building with no windows whatsoever and supposedly soundproof and bulletproof walls. It was quite nifty, really— at least Oikawa appreciated the bar. He was seated on a rouge-leathered stool, coat off to reveal a striped suit vest and elbows propped up on the bar counter behind him. He raised a shot of booze to his lips and downed it in moments. “He might’ve shot him, but I was the one who carried him here, y’know?” he declared, demanding his fair share in the situation.

A small smirk of amusement perked the boss’s lips. “Yes, yes. Excellent, the both of you. Now, Wakatoshi, did yo—”

“Most certainly. As per your usual request.” After having cut off his boss, Ushijima extended a meaty arm, revealing a large splotch of blood on his white, collar-shirted sleeve. With that, he reached up and tore the thing off completely.

Oikawa gagged on his drink.

“Whoa, whoa, Sheba, slow it down!” he crowed, grinning massively as he took another swig of booze.

Both boss and partner ignored him, but it was no unknown fact that Ushijima was seriously one hell of a man. From top to bottom, he had it going for him in whatever direction he chose. His hair was always in perfect, straight locks (not today of course; the rain had ruined that), sometimes tucking whatever portion of his bangs behind his ear if he could. Face symmetrical, incredibly, terribly fit hot piece of ass six-foot-two ripped hunky meaty thick Ushijima—

“Come, Tooru. Take your investment.” The leader pulled out two wads of green bills, handing one to either man, then turned toward the taller hitman and taking the torn article of clothing from him. He pocketed it and smiled slowly. “Well done. Another idiot down. The association’s booming. I couldn’t’ve done it without either of you.”

“Of course. We owe our lives to you, boss,” Oikawa muttered with false empathy as he nodded along, gazing down and silently counting bills. Ushijima counted twenty hundreds. He shared glances with his partner, and the brunet nodded, confirming their amount equal and fair. “Now then, shall finish the night?” 

“That’s it. You’re free to go about. Thank you for today’s efforts, keep up the good work, and don’t forget— I’m your root of life.” The sultry smile presented by their boss was questionable, but nobody dared question the boss. A free ticket to death wasn’t intriguing.

___

MIDNIGHT, 00:00

The rain had ceased over the city of Los Angeles. It’d given mercy to the two hitmen without umbrella, both of whom denied admitting the way they were shivering in their boots. 

Their job was quite simple. Wipe out of existence whomever the boss had targeted. The targets normally consisted of those who couldn’t pay the debts they owned the boss; organized crime, it was. A nice dosage of illegal drugs, medication, auctions, professional sex exchange, illegal alcohol (thanks prohibition), you name it. The Akiraminari Association had it all. Had they provided the customer what they wanted and failed to pay within a week, another week was extended. Had they failed to pay off the debt, they were soon visited by a vicious, attractive male duo with a few pistols. 

Did the boss target those of lesser wealth to kill them off purposely? Sure. Ushijima and Oikawa could act like children some of the time; bored. They needed something to do, no? 

Now. Was the boss oddly mysterious and secretive? Yes. He refused to expose too much about himself or his clients. It was odd, but hey, the pay was good, and after both hitmen’s families had been annihilated viciously, they’d turned to the boss, who took them in based on their skills. At ages fourteen and fifteen. Ten years of loyalty going strong. 

“Where the hell are you off to for the rest of the night, Pacman?” The shorter man had his hands dug into the pockets of his black dress pants, those of which were striped with a light gray. He’d stolen Ushijima’s tophat, placing it on his own head, although it provided minimum warmth. For the past hour, him and his partner had wandered through the alleys, scaring away any and all druggies and dealers and overall delinquents hanging around for some late night exchanging. Did they do it for the greater good? Of course not. It was only amusing to watch them run around like clucking chickens, fleeing from the mere clacking of the hitmens’ heels because they possessed something the night-fuckers didn’t: a gun. One of the only things Wakatoshi and Tooru could agree on: the thrill of the fear within a target’s eyes. Just like the man they’d shot just earlier— god, that guy didn’t stand a chance. His eyes were wide, a dark sea-green. The moonlight had completely captured the anticipation and anguish in the very next moment. That moment replayed over and over again in Oikawa’s head… fuck. He could probably jerk off to it. 

“Can you explain why I am Pacman? Also, I need not expose myself. I don’t want you to follow me.” Ushijima was a simpleton. Too much of one, actually. He enjoyed life not at its fullest, but at its mediocre half-peak. He didn’t care much about looks, but he did take care and groom himself often. However, even simpletons had another side to them. One that only unfolds and reveals itself to certain people, at certain times. One of those people was Oikawa, his partner-in-crime, his complimentary hitman. Of course, the taller brunet didn’t intend for his partner to see this side of him, but he couldn’t really hide it. In the heat of the moment, killing someone brought was accompanied by an insane amount of thrill, which clearly showed on his face. He didn’t want his partner to absorb his second side to him, but it wasn’t as if he could hide it. Oikawa hated him, and the feeling was mutual. In Ushijima’s head, Oikawa was a lowly, whiny, cocky, desperate man. Desperate for money? Obviously. However that wasn’t the bit that concerned the large hitman.

Oikawa was desperate for sex. Like, all the time. Ever since the two had met about seven months ago, all he’d go on about is getting laid with Ushijima, how hot he was, what he would do to him had he caught him in the right moment, etc, etc. It wouldn’t bother him had the other kept such impure thoughts in his head, but…he simply didn’t. He voiced them, and in detail, too, and not only were they disturbing, but unprofessional. Yet another reason to look down on Oikawa.

“Pacman ‘cause Ushiwaka-waka-waka-waka. Get it?” 

“...No.”

“Fuckin’ knucklehead. Fucklehead.”

“Stop it.”

“Anyways it’s not ‘cause I wanna follow you, although I’m quite flattered you’d want me as a stalker,” Tooru winked and tipped his hat. “Quite frankly, I loathe you with every fibre of my being, and I’d only like to know where you’re headed to avoid going there. Sound good?”

“Yes. Alright.” Wakatoshi nodded, reaching over to retrieve the hat Oikawa had stolen. “I was thinking of going to Lure or Boulevard3.” 

“Ooh, clubbing! Feeling frisky, Ushiwaka?”

He glared.

“Pick one, please.” The curly-haired male rolled his eyes.

“Um… I suppose I’ll go to Lure tonight.”

“Alrighty. I’ll go to Boulevard, then.”

“I don’t really care for your intel.”

“Eat ass! ...See you tomorrow?”

“Hopefully not.”

“Love you too.”

WIth that, the hitmen parted ways to venture to two different nightclubs. Supposedly.

___

01:46 AM

The rain had come to a halt as Ushijima boarded the nightly GOTrain to Lure’s Nightclub. He seated himself in the corner (he usually stood, but it was nearly 2AM. Nobody occupied the seats at this time) and picked up a newspaper for leisure reading. And of course, there it was. The Los Angeles Nightly Double Disappearance Mystery. He squinted his eyes, reading along silently for what the authorities had discovered.

 _This fine night on the Los Angeles times, the press has concluded the ever-so mysterious disappearance of Brien O’Finelly. Yet another one bites the dust. This is the third victim authorities have recognized and strongly believe to be apart of the case of The LANDDM. The Los Angeles Nightly Double Disappearance Mystery. After Mr. O’Finelly’s neighbours had phoned in that he appeared to be missing upon visiting to drop off dinner, police arrived momentarily. The apartment complex was investigated for any criminal behaviour or evidence of murder, but nothing seemed of the sort. “Everything was left as though untouched,” Officer H. Iwaizumi chimes. “We can assure you we will get to the bottom of this. If the victim is alive, has been abducted, and all information of contact and of the victim will be listed. Please keep an eye out and inform us of any suspicious activity.” Upon questioning Officer Iwaizumi about the title of the case, he answered, “It wasn’t the authorities who invented it, actually. It was the damn press. ‘Los Angeles’ for where the disappearances are taking place, ‘Nightly’ because they’ve only ever occurred during the night so far, and ‘Double Disappearance’ because we have suspected two culprits instead of one. That’s where ‘Double’ comes in. We found an interesting set of footprints that belonged to three different patterns of soles— one set belonging to the victim, and the other two belonging to supposedly two different culprits. This further provides evidence of this case being an abduction rather a runaway drug addict. Conclusions are still being made. Whatever happens, we will find the culprits. I promise.” Mr. O’Finelly is a 32-year-old, six-foot-one male, 172 lbs. Authorities ask you dial 911 if any information is discovered. The Los Angeles Times will keep you updated on the mysterious case of The LANDDM. Have a good night._

Well. Ushijima was surely keeping this paper. He’d need to show Oikawa immediately. Perhaps they should’ve ventured off to the same nightclub. Shit.

Whatever. He’d just show him tomorrow, then. 

Dismounting the GOTrain, Ushijima walked the short distance to Lure’s. No identification needed, of course— he looked a sweet solid twenty-six. No shave November? Twenty-eight. As he entered the club, simple chatter and low, quiet jazz played over the speakers and filled his ears. No vaudevillian performances had started yet; at least not the nightly ones. The hitman went for the bar, seating himself along the booth and ordering a nice red wine. The bars in LA were odd—as soon as one seated themselves, one became apart of the “group.” The conversation, the hottest thing going around the city, all the news, whatever it was those drunkies were going on about, intoxicated or not— somehow, they knew all the what-abouts going on in the city.

As his wine arrived, he felt a tap on his shoulder from the right side. Turning his head, he gazed at an American man who’s cheeks were rosy with alcohol. “Hoo, boy! Have you heard of the Los Angeles Disappearance Double Mystery...Nightly? I think it was…” He wiped his nose, taking a large sip of some beer.

“...” Ushijima was unaware how to answer. Should he even be engaging conversation with this man? “I have, yes. Why would you bring it up?”

“Well ‘cause it’s hot stuff, duh! As soon as some irrelevant dumbass dies, the press sucks it up like a vaccuum. Jeez, they love that shit, donnay’?”

As soon as he’d open his mouth to respond, Ushijima was interrupted by a younger man sitting next to the incredibly intoxicated one. He turned abruptly, startling the both of them, and the hitman could see his eyes completely red; as well as his cheeks. They were also wet. He was glaring, shoulders shaking.

The older drunken man was utterly flabbergasted. He stared with clueless, wide eyes.

“Well? What’s it to ya? What’s the matter?”

Ushijima was just glad he didn’t have to say it.

The next set of events did not unfold as smoothly as one had hoped.

The young raven-haired male stood up and dropped his bottle, resulting in a mess. He had begun a series of shrieks and screams, claiming he was related to Brien O’Finelly, that Brien was his third-cousin-twice-removed. Absolutely hysterical, his voice broke down as he sobbed with intoxicated agony, security removing him by force. The sudden burst of anguish left Ushijima just a little wide-eyed. He hadn’t expected to meet a relative of one of their many targets in a… bar. 

“Fuckin’ psycho, innit?” The older man was unfazed. It seemed as though he’d witnessed this before. “I bet he just wants a little cash. Ain’t got nobody fooled. Not me, that’s for sure.” 

Wakatoshi wasn’t listening. He was thinking. Just thinking. Thinking about how Brien O’Finelly might’ve had a cousin. Perhaps someone that cared about him. Maybe a girlfriend of some sort. Ushijima’s own family no longer existed— if any of them did, they had yet to contact him. His family was involved in a mass murder at the age of thirteen. The only reason he’d escaped was because he wasn’t even home that night. It was Christmas, and a friend of his, Tendou Satori, had asked if he could help with some last-minute shopping for his mother. He’d agreed despite the disappointment his family displayed. The entire family was over— relatives and all— and every single aunt and uncle and cousin and baby cousin and parent and teenager in that house that very night had been murdered. Every single one. When he returned to his house that night, multiple police cars surrounded it. Confused, little Ushijima hadn’t a clue what was going on. Afterwards, they closed the case within a two months due to being unable to solve it; such little evidence and clues of the murderer were leftover. They’d hidden their tracks pretty damn good. Two years later and he was loyally killing others. Not because he wanted revenge or any of that shit; just because perhaps if he trained himself to think like a killer, he would find the one who slaughtered his family and avenge them once and for all. Find the one who left him helpless in a foster home. 

“...And that’s why the police will solve the LANDDM in like, five weeks tops.”

Ushijima shook his head, snapping back to reality. What did the man just say? “Sorry— what?”

“I said—” 

He was cut off by a sudden boom of cheer and applause. Both men turned around to look behind themselves; the nightly burlesque shows were about to begin. An announcer in a silk suit-and-tie was speaking. “For all you night-lovers, you crawlers that only reveal yourselves within the dark underneath the stars and the illuminating moonlight…”

When Wakatoshi looked back beside him, the man was gone. Bewildered, he got up and refilled his wine glass absent-mindedly, all while turning around and searching for his short-lived companion. There he was, scampering away to join the crowd, stumbling like an idiot. Ushijima had to know what he was saying.

He clacked after him, but he was stopped multiple times by members of the audience passing by and in front of him. It’d be impossible to find the man now. Sighing, Wakatoshi walked to the front with his bottle and glass, stopping at a table right in front of the stage. Politely asking permission to sit with the crew that was already there, he removed his coat (forgetting one sleeve was missing), hung it up on the back of the chair, and seated himself at the round table covered with silky cloth. 

Jazz began to play—Ushijima recognized My Valentine— and a stunning blonde woman with a beautiful bust and a terribly skimpy, black laced dress crawled onto the stage. She began singing along, her voice the sound of an angel. So incredibly pleasant. Ushijima drunk his glass in one breath, feeling more and more relaxed with every sip he took. He simply couldn’t get his eyes off the stage; she was a choice bit of calico and then some. The way she inhaled deeply, the heart-shaped collar of her dress suffocating her milky, perky breasts, the way she bent over the piano so that the hem fell aside and exposed just enough garter and stocking. The way she swung her hips from side-to-side— he usually wasn’t this much of a horndog, but a good show was a good show.

He suffered in silence like the rest of the men as she went on. He was getting more and more inebriated by the moment, and not just from alcohol. Soon enough, she climbed down the set of stairs, her lipstick-red stilettos clacking deeply. All eyes and wolf-whistles in the room followed along as she danced and finally stopped at the table nearly directly in front of Wakatoshi. She was purring and stroking on another man, and from this angle, Ushijima couldn’t even see the other man. Nor did he care. He’d gotten a perfect shot of a tight lacy dress against a tight lacy ass; he wasn’t gonna start complaining.

She pulled the man up by his arm and the crowd cheered mediocrely. He seemed willing to dance with her— hold on a second. 

Fuck, that Oikawa Tooru.

Just what the fuck was he doing here? He’d said he was going to Boulevard3. He was a fucking liar was what he was. 

Ushijima suddenly felt bitter. The show had been ruined for him. He could feel his dick shrinking. Fucking hell. And the worst part? 

Oikawa was staring directly at him. With the world’s most smug smile on his face. Grinding on the woman, purring sweet nothings into her ear, groping her behind, stroking her sides— claiming her. She was his kitten now, it seemed. 

Ushijima wrinkled his nose. God. He just wanted this to be over.

___

02:18 AM

He stormed over to Oikawa’s table with his bottle for he’d rid of his glass somewhere along the way. The show had just ended— a full half hour of Oikawa’s dumbass dancing sexually upon a burlesque vaudevillian. He’d ruined Ushijima’s groove, and on purpose, too. He could just tell.

“C’mere,” His deep voice growled, grabbing his partner (who was engaged in some chatty conversation with men and women alike) by the collar and lurching him forward. He didn’t wait for an answer. He did wonder how he’d managed to do his hair like its regular style again; Ushijima’s hair was probably a mess. He led the other hitman into the bathroom, shoving him into the sink a little too harshly. “Just what the fuck are you doing here?”

Oikawa didn’t cough as his spine hit the edge of the sink. He caught himself and bounced back, smoothing out his hair and fixing his tie. His smile refused to waver. “Jeez, Ushiwaka, what’s your problem? Hey, what— are you splifficated?” He made a dramatic show of sniffing the air. “Goodness! You totally are!”

“Just answer the question. You said you were headed for Boulevard3, remember?”

“Yep. Affirmative. I’m guilty. But y’know… I wasn’t exactly lying…”

Ushijima’s frown hardened, and he shook his head with confusion. “What? You said you were going to Boulevard, and here you are, at Lure’s…you said you didn’t wanna be where I was.”

“Oh, that’s the most you’ve said in a while! You really are zozzled, huh?” The lighter brunet chuckled, striding along towards his partner-in-crime, who backed up in efforts to get away from him. Eventually, poor intoxicated Ushijima ended up with his meaty back pressed against the bathroom wall. It was cold— his suit coat was missing somewhere. Hopefully by his chair where he’d left it, but you never really knew at Lure’s.

His own partner-in-crime was pressed up against his chest like dog eager to play fetch. Fetch dick. Oikawa was quite the looker himself. Broad shoulders, toned muscles, addictive face and looks— but that didn’t make what he was doing okay. He smiled widely, perfect pink lips gazing at Ushijima’s thick ones. Snaking his arms around the hitman’s large waist, he tilted his head back and looked up at his partner, smile still wide; eyelids down at half-mast. “You know I wasn’t lying…” His voice hit the taller man like when a vibrator is activated. A wave of pleasure renders you speechless, weak, knees-buckling pleasure has one seeing white vision. His voice was just silky, smooth, deep, crackling… 

_Angelic._

“Obviously I’d fool you like that, I totally expected you to notice…and if I expected you to notice I was fooling you, then I’m not lying. I mean, you didn’t get the hint. Now who’s fault…” A slender index finger travelled upwards, starting at the top of his navel and unbuttoning every bit of his white button-down it came across, “…Is that?” It point directly atop Ushijima’s Adam’s apple. He was so close he could feel his breath on his lips. The taller male himself had to be panting lightly as well— shit, the tent below was back. How fucking disgusting. He hated this particular individual, and to pitch a tent for him? Absolutely grotesque.

“...Get off of me at once.” Ushijima’s voice was quiet, yet deep and grumbling. He frowned sternly, his eyebrows furrowing further as his cheeks danced in fire.

“Oh _fuck_ no.” Now the hand was creeping downwards. Downwards, downwards, downwards…past the navel… 

“N-no, don’t touch m—” One hand held behind him by Oikawa, the other occupied with his wine bottle, Ushijima buckled his knee, but his partner was fast. “Hey, this is wrong. Get off of me, you cake-ea—”

 

“C-cake-eater?!” The shorter hitman exclaimed, pupils suddenly shrinking to the size of pinpoints. “Cake-eater?! _Me?!_ Cake-eater?” He let out a horrific, sharp laugh, his knee leaving no room for the tent Ushijima was pitching. “You’re the one getting hard off of my fucking face; I’m the cake-eater?!” He nearly yelled in exclamation, high laugh echoing throughout the bathroom. He reached down at lightning speed and groped the other’s stimulated package with a deadly-tight grip. “Look at this! You’re so fucking easy! Oh, my God! You’re harder than when you were watching that performer, huh?” Oikawa’s cheeks were also flushed as of now. And he was nowhere near intoxicated. 

“Ghh…!” The taller male squirmed and flinched upon being touched, wincing in pain. “S-shut up…it’s not because of y-you, you self-centred lowlife impure cock-sucking prick—” 

With that, Wakatoshi emptied his wine bottle.

All over Oikawa’s head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if anyone's reading this, hope yall liked this chapter. stay tuned for more <3
> 
> \- yoomi.


End file.
